Ostara
After the party, after falling asleep in the visitor’s suite, and long after midnight, I have this dream. It’s an unusual one, and at first I don’t think I’m dreaming. I gradually “wake up” in the dream and find myself in bed in the visitor’s suite of University Hall. I’ve never had a dream about waking up in bed before. But it’s definitely a dream.
The room has a funny feel to it, a sort of dreamlike, slo-mo quality. I imagine this must be what it’s like being anesthetized for an operation. Moonlight streams in from the window, washing the room in pale, silvery tones. I’m awake but not.
Of course, it has to be a dream for the little brown man to fit in. He’s quite amusing. At no more than six inches tall, he’s sitting at the foot of my bed on top of the covers. Just looking at him makes me smile. He’s like an animated character out of a children’s movie. Half human, half animated mouse, he’s holding his tiny hands in front of him and is wearing a green vest. Although covered in sleek brown fur, his head is human and cocked to one side, peering at me from underneath expansive eyebrows. He’s smiling, too, like we’re good friends.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Mac.”
The little man/mouse smiles more broadly, and he stretches forward a bit sniffing the air. It is a mouse-like movement, and his pointy nose is lifted high.
“I’m Brown Jenkin,” he says.
It’s hard to place his accent, but I swear he must have flown in from Bristol, England. Brown Jenkin continues to stare at me with both familiarity and intensity.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” says Brown Jenkin. “Why am I here? Well, I will not lie to you. It’s not my style. I’m here to interview you.”
That gets me laughing a bit. I’m being interviewed by an animated mouse! I don’t remember having such an odd, funny dream before.
Brown Jenkin joins me in the laughter, then asks, “Will you remember this dream, do you think, Mac?”
“I’m sure I will. I remember all my dreams.”
“Do you?” asks Brown Jenkin. “Remarkable. Do you mind if I come a bit closer?”
“Of course not,” I say. “Come up, and I’ll get a better look at you.”
Brown Jenkin edges forward a bit on the bedspread, and it’s an odd movement. His edges appear indistinct, and the motion is a hybrid of how a mouse might scramble and how a small man might walk. My mind has trouble understanding Brown Jenkin’s mode of movement, but suddenly he’s much closer, and I notice that his small round face is really quite handsome. For some reason, I’m feeling almost inebriated, and I say the first thing that comes into my head.
“You’re a handsome little fellow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am quite ‘glamorous’ tonight, you might say,” he replies. “I thought I would look my best for the interview, you see. I owes you that.” As he speaks, he’s primping a bit, showing off his vest and puffing up his furry chest.
“That’s right. The interview,” I say.
“Second question,” says Brown Jenkin. “Do you make changes in your dreams?”
“Oh yes. All the time. If things get scary, I just change it. Sometimes I change things in a dream just to make it more fun.”
“Are your dreams often scary, Mac?”
“Is that one of your questions, Mr. Jenkin?”
“We’re friends now, Mac. You can call me Brownie, if you want. Scary dreams, yes?”
“Some are scary, Brownie,” I say, almost laughing again. Something about calling him Brownie seems hilarious. “What kind of name is ‘Brown Jenkin?’” I ask.
“Oh, it’s an old, old name, but then, I’m an old fella. I came to America on a brigantine full of Puritans. Those were the days, eh? A little fellow could take his pick of friends then. People were simple, more trusting, like. But I’m the one asking questions, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Do you have dreams about places you’ve never been to? Places in other worlds or places where people aren’t even people?” asks Brown Jenkin.
“Of course,” I reply. “Doesn’t everybody? Don’t you?”
Brown Jenkin smiles broadly, and his teeth come into better focus. They seem sharper than I would have thought for this happy little guy. He doesn’t answer my question.
“Do your dreams ever show you what’s going to happen?”
The frivolity of this dream seems to be having its impact on me. I think of the Disney version of this question. “Are you asking me if my dreams ‘really do come true’?”
“Yes,” says Brown Jenkin, pointedly. “Do they?”
“Not always,” I say truthfully, hoping not to disappoint my new little friend.
“Can you tell the difference?” asks Brown Jenkin. “Do you know which dreams will come true?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is this dream going to come true, do you think?” asks Brown Jenkin, with a twinkle in his small brown eyes.
At first the question seems silly. We’re still having this dream, after all! But then I realize he’s also asking if this is a lucid dream. He’s asking if I have any control over how it comes out. By way of answering, I make his vest disappear.
“Oi!” says Brown Jenkin. “That’s my vest! You ought not interfere with a fella’s vest, you rascal!” The vest reappears but not under my direction.
“Do you believe in Magic?” asks Brown Jenkin. “Do you believe in summoning spirits, talking to the dead, and scrying the future?”
“That’s more than one question,” I say, a bit peevishly.
“Answer,” says Brown Jenkin, a note of sternness in his voice.
“I do believe that ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” I say, remembering the quote from Hamlet. I try to match Brown Jenkin’s stern tone but end up with a giggle.
“Shakespeare, is it?” remarks Brown Jenkin. “He was a true arse, in my opinion. Thought he was so la-ti-da!” He pauses for a moment, reflecting. “So you do believe in the hidden world, eh?”
“Yes. Most of what’s hidden isn’t magic, though. It’s just hidden.”
“Always the scientist,” says Brown Jenkin, tilting his head and smiling wickedly. “I suppose you’ll think more on it after Miskatonic gets under your skin. Have you ever wished someone harm and had it happen?”
“No. Other people create their own bad fortune.”
Brown Jenkin thinks and then asks for clarification. “And you, eh? Do you create your own bad fortune?”
The conversation has turned philosophical for a moment. “I believe that we each create our life, bad or good, as a consequence of what we think and believe and expect. If you expect life to be hard, it will be. If you expect and think the best, you’ll have a more positive life.”
“Oi,” says Brown Jenkin, after a moment’s pause. Suddenly he’s all smiles again. “Sounds like New Age American pap! Good luck with that around here!” He waves broadly, indicating the university or perhaps the world in general.
“Last question,” says Brown Jenkin. “Do you have sex with animals?”
We both laugh. This seems like a great joke, but at the same time I see that he requires an answer. Throughout the dream I feel like I’ve been given a truth serum. It’s a fun dream, and answering the questions feels fun, too.
“No,” I say, smiling. “That’s disgusting.”
Brown Jenkin shrugs, then he says, “I think that’s enough questions for now, eh?”
“Did I pass?” I ask.
He looks at me, uncomprehending.
“The interview,” I prompt. “Did I answer all the questions correctly? Did I pass?”
“Oh yes. The interview.” Brown Jenkin reflects a moment. “Yes, you answered all the questions. You did good, and I’m going to tell you a story.”
Clearly the story is a reward of some kind. “Is it a bedtime story?” I ask, indicating the bed around us with a sweep of my hand.
We both laugh.
“Yes,” says Brown Jenkin. “It will help you go back to your sleep.”
Sleeping already, as we are, we both have another quiet laugh.
Brown Jenkin moves a little closer and begins to tell the story. “There once was an old lady what wanted to own the world.”
“You can’t own the world.” I say, but Brown Jenkin silences me with one finger of his right paw.
“She wanted to control the world, then, if you like. To this purpose, she learned the forgotten magic ways. She studied old books. She apprenticed with a cut-wife and learned herbs. Later, she conjured demons and learned the means to control them.”
“Did she have sex with animals?” I ask, repressing a giggle.
“Shush,” says Brown Jenkin. “Listen to my story.” He moves a little closer. He’s sitting on my solar plexus now, his perfect little hands clasped together in front of him.
“She learned about the secret side of life. She learned how to bewitch people and have them see what she wanted them to see. She healed people of all sorts of diseases and also could make them sick, when it suited her right. She learned ancient ways of stopping death or at least how to go beyond it.
“As part of learning poisons, many of the neighbors’ dogs did disappear. One of her spells made all the milk in the village turn sour. Although she had nothing to do with it, a village babe was born with twelve fingers. These things and more were said to be her fault, and the people of the town grew fearful, like. They called her names and stopped doing business with her. They were afraid of her, but she learned that fear was not enough to keep her safe. One cold spring morn’ she heard the old wives talking to each other while hanging the wash. She heard the wicked people of town planning to kill her. A dozen men would come to her home on Sunday, three days hence. After church they’d hang her.”
“Hang her,” I say, almost to myself.
“Oh yes,” says Brown Jenkin. “They planned to haul her right up Church Street to Hangman’s Hill. That’s the way they did things then.”
“In the story,” I say, quietly.
“In the story,” repeats Brown Jenkin. “So she planned her escape. By Sunday morning she’d be long gone. She put together the things she needed for travel. She’d go on horseback Saturday night and needed to get provisions from the village. The villagers all knew about the hanging, of course, and they were happy to sell her what she needed. They must’ve figured it was easy money and soon she’d be done.”
Brown Jenkin pauses in thought as though remembering the rest of the story.
“She bought herself traveling clothes, jerky, pemmican, hardtack, and other things so she wouldn’t have to stop for a league or more. She was a smart one and a good planner, like. She also decided to buy a new saddle, one better for long-distance and damp travel. At the smithy, she came across a fine saddle brought all the way from England. She bought it with the last of her money. Hidden away, in the pommel of the saddle, after four thousand miles aboard a ship, she found her first true friend.”
“It was you,” I say, somewhat sleepily. The bedtime story is having its effect, and I’m having trouble focusing on the story and on Brown Jenkin. When I blink my eyes, it’s hard to see him clearly. One blink, he’s all animated mouse character. The next blink, he seems more like an old sewer rat.
“I was her only true friend,” says Brown Jenkin, “and someone who could help her.” He moves forward again. Now he’s on my chest, and I see that his vest is gone and what I thought was sleek brown fur is actually patchy and worn. His front paws still look like hands, though, and they’re outstretched to my neck and face as he continues his story.
“Her new friend also knew a thing or two about magic. Even a mouse has its place in the hidden world,” says Brown Jenkin, puffing out his chest. “Old World mice have lived through plague and war. While much of London was on fire, mice were underground learning what can only be learnt in the dark places of tomb and grave.”
Brown Jenkin’s voice is getting quieter now, and I’m half asleep. I’ve got one eye open, and Brown Jenkin has paused his story for a moment. His mouth is bright red now, as though he’s wearing lipstick. Lipstick on a rat! I think, amused at the idea.
As I slip into a half-sleep, back into the dream within a dream, Brown Jenkin finishes his story. “But either the old woman overheard wrong or the villagers changed the plan. When she went out Saturday afternoon to saddle up the horse, her property was surrounded by villains, her horse nowhere to be seen. That lady was desperate, I can tell you, with no means for escape. She ran back into the house. That’s when those men decided that instead of hanging, they would burn her up.
“They set her thatched roof on fire and proceeded to barricade the doors. The house went up quick, I can tell you! Whoosh! With the flames coming out the windows, they expected to hear screams. But there was only silence and the sound of burning wood. They guarded the house all the afternoon until it was burnt clean to the ground. In evening they looked for signs of her body in the ashes and smoky remains. They were disappointed! No trace was ever found of Mother Mason!”
I can still hear Brown Jenkin, but my thinking is muddled with sleep, and I find myself overcome by it as I hear the last words of his story.
“I taught the witch to fly!”
❖
Breakfast is uneventful. Ms. Barry has sent over someone from the dorm cafeteria with a tray. She must have forgotten to tell them I’m a vegetarian, because in addition to eggs, toast, and oatmeal, there’s a pile of bacon. I pick over the food and wonder how I was at the party last night.
I remember the conversation was a little weird. Something about mythic undersea creatures. I got a bit drunk and indistinctly remember Ms. Barry walking me back to the visitor’s suite. Oh, and the weird dream. I wonder if I should explain my behavior or if it was really OK? Distractedly, I look out the window in the sitting room into the walled garden. Today it’s cloudy and looks colder than yesterday.
This time I recognize the chime from the door to the visitor’s suite. I open the door, and there’s Ms. Barry and a young man with blond hair and watery blue eyes.
“Good morning, Dr. Mackenzie,” says Ms. Barry. “I hope you slept well.”
I do not detect disapproval in her voice or face, so maybe I behaved well enough at the meet-and-greet. Ms. Barry looks fresh and happy. I return the borrowed tie to her, and she introduces the young fellow.
“This is George Marsh,” she says. “He’s a graduate teaching fellow in the Oceanography Department. I thought you might enjoy having someone your own age give you a short campus tour.”
“Call me George,” he says.
I smile and return the favor. “I’m Mac.”
“George, would you do me a favor?” asks Ms. Barry. “I don’t want Dr. Mackenzie to get lost or be late for his interview. Can I ask you to give him a tour, but end the tour at Massachusetts Hall no later than ten forty-five? His interview is at eleven, and I’ll walk him there from Massachusetts Hall.”
“Sounds fine, Ms. Barry,” says George.
Ms. Barry takes her leave, and George helps me finish my breakfast. He eats the bacon, I take the rest.
George is about my height with a narrow face and a slender but muscled torso and lean arms. He’s probably just a few years younger than I am. His blond hair is receding a bit, but he’s handsome and easygoing.
“I like Claire,” says George. “She practically runs the Science Department. I know she’s Dr. Christianson’s personal assistant, but somehow she’s more than just that. She doesn’t like me calling her ‘Claire,’ though. She’s all business where Miskatonic is concerned.”
While I’m getting ready to go out on the tour, I ask George some questions about the college.
“Are the younger faculty happy here?” I ask, pulling on a sweater for insulation against the outdoors.
“I suppose,” says George, thoughtfully. “To be honest, though, there aren’t many young professors on staff. I would guess that’s one of the reasons they’ve invited you to interview. Miskatonic could use younger people with new ideas. There are a few other graduate teaching fellows that are in their twenties and thirties, but not many full professors under fifty.”
“Is it easy to make friends here, do you think?” I ask, putting my shoes on.
“Oh yeah,” says George, smiling. “Every fall there’s a new batch of friends—if you know what I mean.”
I do know what George means, but I respond, “Yes, but friends that will be more permanent. Not just dating.”
“I see what you mean,” says George, more thoughtfully. “I guess Miskatonic isn’t any different than any other place with groups of transient people. You have to look toward the people who really live there if you want to make lasting friends. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with that, Mac. I’d be glad to introduce you to some of the permanent faculty and GTFs. We’re all a pretty friendly bunch.”
I sense that George is being truthful, and I like the idea that he might be a friend on campus. We make our way to the front of University Hall. For all his fitness, George has a strange kind of shambling walk. From the windowed entry I can see that last night’s clear sky has been replaced by heavy overcast. A light rain is beginning to fall. Although it’s itching a bit, I’m glad I brought the wool sweater! We borrow umbrellas from the entryway of University Hall and step out onto the portico.
George starts by explaining the overall layout of the university.
“Think of three concentric rings,” he says. “The first ring was built surrounding the Green. That’s the common green area that existed when the campus was founded.” We’re standing just outside University Hall, at the head of the Green, with the first of George’s rings spread out around us.
“In the early days, there was just this circle of buildings. In the 1800s, a second circle was built around the first circle. The third circle is mostly private residences built in the 1700s and 1800s. They were converted into university buildings and acquired by the school after the original owners died.”
“Across the Green is Massachusetts Hall. That’s the Science Department where Claire and Dr. Christianson work. That’s also where you’d be teaching. I have a few of my science classes there too. Also in the first ring are the buildings for music, natural sciences, mathematics, and an alumni building. The big one to the right is the Solomon Center, which houses the main library as well as a large event auditorium.”
George points between two of the buildings in the first ring to a more modern building in the background. “The second ring has a few newer buildings in it, including that modern dormitory complex and the Student Union. The Union is a great place to hang out, get a snack, and meet friends. It also has a graduate-student lounge, which is a nice place to meet some of the GTFs and younger instructors.
“I live in the third ring. If you get the job, ask them to find housing for you. They only take a small portion of my teaching salary and give me a small apartment. It’s really quite affordable. Make sure you ask for on-campus housing—driving into Arkham in the winter is not fun!”
We step out into the rain, and George shows me more of the architectural sights. The Solomon Center, in particular, is spectacular. It’s shaped like an eight-sided multistory beehive built of brick and sandstone. The sides are stacked gothic arches with leaded-glass windows. Each arch has fretwork and a lightning rod at the apex. The front “door” is three stories high, and George shows me the first floor of the library complex. It’s a showpiece of old paneling and antique fixtures but also has modern library facilities and computers.
We end the tour, as we promised Ms. Barry, at Massachusetts Hall. It’s a bit of a marvel, too. All granite and brick, it has an unusual five-sided tower integrated into one side of the building and projecting from the top of it. “I think they built the building around that old tower,” says George. “You can see that it doesn’t really match the rest of the building.”
As we walk up the steps to Massachusetts Hall, I get a strange feeling. There’s something not quite right about the place, or maybe it reminds me of something from a forgotten dream. I feel a little disoriented standing in the entryway. For a moment I wonder if this whole “moving to Massachusetts thing” is a good idea. Maybe I should change my mind, change my course of action, just get the hell out of here! Then, whatever weird feeling I’m getting passes. I’m just standing at the top of the steps at Massachusetts Hall with George holding the door open for me.
The inside of Massachusetts Hall is quite lovely. It’s designed around a central rotunda, ringed with a multistory colonnade. We find Ms. Barry in the rotunda on the first floor. She’s behind a reception desk, clicking away at a computer terminal.
“You’re just in time,” says Ms. Barry, speaking to George. “Let’s quickly take him up to the third floor so he can see the physics labs and the lecture halls. Then I’ve got to get him back to University Hall in time to have him change for his interview.” She’s eyeing my clothing again. Clearly my jeans will not be adequate for the interview.
The three of us pile into the most interesting elevator I’ve ever seen. It’s a brass cage hanging on the edge of the multistory colonnade and held in place with cables and struts. The controls look like some kind of steam-punk fantasy, but George is familiar with them. He pulls the gate to the cage closed, turns a huge lever, and we begin to rise majestically upward to the top of the rotunda.
We start with the physics labs. There are two of them on the third floor, and I’m a bit disappointed. When Dr. Alvarez said they were designed for “classical physics,” I think he was being generous. Sir Isaac Newton would have been pleased with the labs and their equipment. Not me. Major upgrades will be necessary to perform quantum physics experiments in these labs.
Then we walk down the hall a bit farther, and Ms. Barry opens the door to one of the lecture halls.
It’s my classroom from the dream. The tiered seating. The palladium windows. The green blackboard. All of it. I feel a chill going down my spine, and it’s as though the lights have dimmed, while a brighter light is shining on me. It’s that Star Trek lighting thing again. Of course, it’s only in my head, but isn’t that where reality starts?
“This is my lecture hall,” I say, quietly, in perfect confidence.
Neither George nor Ms. Barry contradict me.
❖
I’m back at University Hall in the visitor’s suite and, once again, Ms. Barry is helping me with my wardrobe. She’s borrowed another necktie and a pocket square from her son to go with my sport jacket and sweater. I have to say, Ms. Barry knows what she’s doing. Although my look is still casual, it now looks expensive-casual and everything “goes together.”
I’m still not sure of her motives. Why does she care how I look? Why does she care if I get this job? Somehow, I just don’t have the gumption to ask these questions, and, smiling, she leads me down yet another hallway into a formal conference room.
The room is quite impressive. Ms. Barry calls it the chancellor’s study, but it looks more like a medieval boardroom with a long oak table lined with armchairs with high backs. There’s a fireplace along one paneled wall, but it doesn’t dissipate the chill from this austere room. A wall of leaded-glass windows provides filtered light. High overhead, arched beams hold up a whitewashed ceiling. The main wall is bare granite stonework. The fireplace mantel contains the only decoration, and its bas-relief is a row of winged creatures with spears. Angels? Demons?
The room’s chilly atmosphere is broken with a welcoming invitation.
“Come in, come in, Dr. Mackenzie. We’ve been looking forward to talking more with you.” Chancellor Mason is all smiles today. He’s dressed in another tailored suit, this time in shiny midnight blue. He motions to the others sitting at one end of the enormous table, and they stand. “I think you’ve already met everyone here.” He motions to each one in turn, reminding me of their names. “Dr. Christianson, Dr. Alvarez, Dr. Gupta, and Ms. Barry, of course.”
They all smile and nod as they’re reintroduced. Dr. Alvarez (Horace) gives me a small wink.
“Please sit,” says Dr. Mason, “and we’ll get started. Claire, do you mind taking notes for us?”
Ms. Barry already has a small pad of paper in front of her, and she picks up a pen for note-taking.
Remembering my dream and Brown Jenkin, I wonder if Dr. Mason is going to ask me if I have sex with animals. He does not. Instead, I get a series of questions about my academic record, my research into quantum physics, black holes, dark matter, inter-dimensional mathematics, quantum computers, some of Einstein’s paradoxes, and particle accelerators. Most of it pertains to the subjects I’ll be teaching, but some of the questions sound more like fringe-science. At one point Dr. Christiansen asks if I think inter-dimensional travel is possible. Is she trying to see if I’m crazy or if I like science fiction? I give her my “anything is possible” speech, but I see that she’s not entirely satisfied by it. Does she want me to speculate without any sort of scientific evidence?
Ms. Barry must feel that I’m starting to get flustered, so she asks me a question that’s more down-to-earth. It’s a hard question, but I appreciate her sincerity. She asks, “Why do you want to leave your home, your family, and your life on the West Coast, Dr. Mackenzie?” She’s looking at me with compassion, and I know that this is the only question that matters to her.
“It’s time for me to move forward in life,” I say, simply. “So far I’ve just moved along. In school I did well in science, so Mom suggested UCLA. It was close to home, so I could save on expenses. One of my professors said that I had a real talent for quantum physics and started involving me in a team working on black holes and dark matter. Another professor loved my master’s thesis and wanted me to help her work on a paper to be presented at a symposium. Someone at the symposium thought we could collaborate on a more fundamental study of so-called ‘Hawking radiation.’”
I notice that I’m scratching my neck. That darn wool sweater! Self-consciously, I relax my hand and put it in my lap. “It seems my whole life has been successful—but always doing what other people thought I should be doing.” I pause for a moment. I’m not really sure what I’m going to say next, but I plunge ahead, looking at Ms. Barry. “Working here represents doing something just for me. I love teaching, and this would be an opportunity to concentrate on what I love. There’s something wonderful about showing new people the wonders of quantum physics. There’s a power in helping someone set up proper conditions for a controlled laboratory experiment and utilizing the rigors of scientific methodology.”
I look over to Dr. Alvarez and say, “I would so enjoy working with you in upgrading the science labs, Dr. Alvarez. Collaboration is something that I’m good at, and I have friends at UCLA who would help me, help us, with lab design. Updated equipment would bring Miskatonic into the modern age. Maybe physics could one day be listed as a Miskatonic ‘specialty.’”
Now, looking at Dr. Mason, I finish answering Ms. Barry’s question. “Although I don’t know much about Miskatonic University, I do feel called to be here. When I went into the lecture hall on the third floor of Massachusetts Hall, I knew it was my lecture hall. I don’t mean this in an arrogant way. I know you may not hire me for a teaching position. What I mean is that I had a complete sense of owning a classroom. I’m a good teacher. I would be a good professor here. I know that I can thrive at Miskatonic University, and I know the university will be better for my participation.”
After a bit of silence, Dr. Christianson smiles and says, “So we’ve grilled you for about an hour, and you’ll need to leave for your red-eye back to California in about another hour. Before you go, what questions do you have for us? If you were to accept a teaching position here what would you ask of us?”
So I tell them.
❖
The plane ride home isn’t any shorter, but at least the lights are low, and there’s no pressure for talking. Most everyone is asleep. I’m pleased with my job interview. I can’t imagine answering the questions any differently, and I think people responded well to me. Dr. Alvarez seems relieved that he would have someone to help him upgrade the labs and teach some of the more modern physics classes. Ms. Barry clearly wants me to have the job, and Dr. Mason, the chancellor, seemed friendly toward me.
Dr. Christianson didn’t say much during the interview, but she didn’t seem negative in any way, either.
My mind is racing a bit, and I realize that “worrying” about my job interview is silly. I either get the job or not. Worry will have no effect on the outcome and is just preventing me from going to sleep.
I al